Bulawayo

Dust devils dance
in the streets of Bulawayo.

Markets and granaries
once full of harvests plenty,
stare starkly in the darkness
now over flowing
with a pregnant emptiness.
This bread basket of Africa
has become a ghetto,
filled with the hungry.

Heavy booted, storm trooper feet
echo loudly on cobble stone streets.
No one has come this day
to cast a vote for freedom.

Dust devils dance
in the streets of Bulawayo,
as the sun descends,
as another night of fear begins.

We, who live in a privileged state
should in righteous indignation
condemn the tyrant,
that in corruptive power
tramples on the few shards
now left of his people’s dignity,
lest we in our silence,
we who do not care to speak,
are in our final days
condemned by a higher Judge.

Dust devils dance in the
streets of Bulawayo.

A child, rail thin,
Coughs then weeps.
One last death rattle,
is swallowed by the night wind.

A smiley faced despot
contentedly sleeps,
his belly full of food,
food stolen from a child’s mouth.
A child that once laughed
and joyfully played
in the streets of Bulawayo.

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Filed under Poem, Poetry For the People

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